Blank
by 95winters
Summary: <html><head></head>He's unstable. Erratic. But he's not blank. There's a lot going on inside the Winter Soldier. And what he struggles to remember just may be the thing that brings him back to the sanity of reality. This explores what he does after leaving the Smithsonian at the end of Captain America 2. NO SLASH.</html>
1. Prologue: Poteryali

**Prologue: Poteryali***

He couldn't stand to stare here any longer. He didn't recognize that face, no matter how much it actually looked like him. No matter how insistent the man on the bridge had seemed.

Then again, who was he to disagree when someone told him who he was?

When he decided he had read the exhibit over enough times, the Soldier turned to leave the museum. What he brought with him was a wad of pilfered cash, a solemn resolve to leave the site of confusion, and a single photograph.

The Soldier kept his head to the ground, a new habit he deemed insanely important, and casually but briskly made his way through the mass of excited museum inhabitants. Once outside, the icy air bit into him like the numbing stabs of the idea of identity. It was winter in D.C.

The Soldier's breath came out like fog in the cold air as he made his way past the museum's entrance and onto the sidewalk. Most people were bundled up from the snow, making the Soldier's disguise unnoticeable. On the sidewalk, a young army soldier made his way past the Soldier to meet a girl that was waiting for him. The man didn't even glance at the Soldier, moving right past him into the arms of the girl. The couple lovingly embraced and huddled together in all smiles. The Soldier didn't give them a second thought either; he kept walking.

He continued on to a neighborhood, where the houses were lit against the growing dusk, illuminating a sense of warmth from within. Through candled windows, families were sitting down to dinner, chatting and laughing. Decorations were beginning to go up; after all it was the end of November. A few children were outside swirling snowballs at each other's flushed faces . But the Soldier once again turned down his head and kept walking.

He walked down the street, thoughts whirring as a broken machine, unable to comprehend anything. He walked past the houses, unaware of the life he was missing. He walked out of the neighborhood, lost in resolve to recover his identity. The Soldier walked father and farther down the street, farther into the winter fog.

*"Poteryali" is Russian for "lost," "dead," or "gone."


	2. Chapter 1: Mission Mindset

**Chapter 1: Mission Mindset**

In the corner of a Chicago coffee shop, the Winter Soldier sat gripping and sipping a white mug of local coffee at a lone table. Beneath his navy baseball hat, he peered out at the various civilians passing in and out. They retrieved their drinks, indulging in or ignoring the conversation around them. Many had come and gone, as the Soldier had been there for hours – just him and half-cold coffee.

Coffee was typical, right? He can't remember the last time he had it, but it seemed like a normal thing to do. Whatever it was made of, however, was making him feel more and more anxious. The activity inside his mind felt displaced him from the movement around him. The atmosphere was so casual, so temporary. The ordinary unnerved him, and he gripped the mug in front of him tighter. Every diversifying figure that came through the door only made him wonder if they ever had anything to do with Hydra. Or if he had ever tried to kill them.

The thought twisted some sort of pain inside of him, but he didn't know what it was called. He looked down and began to breathe slowly, trying to refocus his thoughts. The Soldier gripped tight with his left arm this time, the soft cushion beneath him giving way to his metal fist. He was thinking about the last person he had tried to kill. But the Soldier had shown… kindness before disappearing. Guilt was the possible factor for coming close to completely annihilating the Captain in his rage of emotion. He knew he was supposed to know who Bucky was.

_Bucky. _The name rendered the faintest bell in the recesses of his memory, remembering it shouted from the blue eyes that so urgently wanted to tell him something. Was he really Bucky? Who _the hell _was Bucky? Still, it registered more inside of him than anything else right now, especially after contemplating it for the past week. Long, aimless rides on the MegaBus gave him time to think. However, that never lasted long before the migraines attacked full force, like icicles in his skull. All he knew was that he was away from Hydra, and things needed to stay that way. Even with no plan or destination in sight, bus rides seemed comfortable and appealing. No one bothered with the other passengers on a bus.

After leaving the mangled hero on the banks of the lake, Bucky knew he needed to be far from the scene. Distance in space, distance in thoughts. Whatever was left of them, anyway. He had taken the bus to various places before coming to Illinois, simply nomadic in nature. However, he knew that soon he was going to need a place to stay for the night in Chicago.

The Soldier eventually left the café, on the hunt for such a place. He figured he could eventually happen upon something, even if he had to search through the night. And it was already growing dark. Orange dusk was descending upon the skyline as the Soldier walked through a dark back alley. He kept his eyes to the ground, blocking out the startling city lights. Though he clearly wanted space, someone still bothered to request his attention.

The hand that clasped his right shoulder belonged to a man in his early thirties, clearly desperate for something. He must have been hiding in the shadows of the alley, because his presence was a shock. The sudden touch brought a rise out the Soldier, flaring up his heart rate and his panic mode. But he didn't let it show; he was used to hiding that. Hydra could touch him however they wanted and he could never do anything about it.

"Hey man, can I borrow a few bucks? I just need a ride home. My girl, she…" The man continued to ramble on, but the Soldier couldn't hear him. His breathing intensified – this man was interfering with his mission. Probably not a threat – if it was Hydra, they would have had him by now, there was no need to pretend. Still, he had no patience to deal with this citizen.

"No, I don't have any –"

The man grabbed the Soldier's shoulder once again. "Just a couple bucks, man, please, a little will help, for real –" But before he could finish his sentence, his airway was cut off by the Soldier's right hand. The man's eyes widened, clearly surprised at the sudden switch that came over the Soldier. Neither did he expect the metal hand that came up, right next to the darkened eyes beneath the baseball hat. That black glare was the last thing that man saw before collapsing on the alley ground.

The Soldier soon regained his composure, simply staring at the unconscious man at his feet. The sound of traffic outside the alley eventually overcame the sound of his slowing heartbeat. He was certain that no one had seen him behind this building; it was a secluded area and growing darker by the minute. Still, he swept the area, trusting his eyes that it was deserted.

What he didn't notice was the black figure slipping behind the corner of the adjacent building.

And with that, the Soldier picked up his head, inhaled deeply through his nose, and walked on his way. He needed a place to stay.


	3. Chapter 2: Machine

**Chapter 2: Machine**

The Soldier awoke to sunlight streaming through the cracks of a sheet draped over the window of an abandoned apartment. He guessed he was still in Chicago, but most of the past few weeks seemed like fuzzy memory again. Still, the atmosphere of the awakening brought a certain fear to his heart. He couldn't shake it – it was always with him.

The constant dread lessened as he remembered that he was on his own now – as comforting as that could be. There no one was controlling him now, as long as he could stay hidden and lay low. Who knew what Hydra was doing now? Even with his freedom, he didn't know how to exist. A haze of hesitation accompanied every breath.

He groaned as he struggled to roll over, the weight of his metal arm too much for him right now and the pounding of a headache pulling him closer to the pillow. The Soldier had spent all night trying to make his memory _work_, which in his case, meant insomnia. Sleep had become an unnatural luxury. Still, there was no certain future for him, so he thought it best to try his hand at grasping something other than someone's throat.

But _it was so painful._ He couldn't remember who he was! Nothing before his last mission, nothing before the insistent and insanely confusing claims made by the Captain. Nothing but _I knew him. _That fact stayed.

At this point the Soldier was sitting up on the bed, studying the sunbeams. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded up photograph. A picture of two people, named Steve and Bucky. Best friends since childhood…inseparable….They looked determined and proud, leading a troop of soldiers into camp. The Soldier had discreetly torn the picture out of an album at the Captain America display back in D.C. and had learned all this from reading the exhibit.

_But none of it made sense._

The Soldier now meandered into the small, dank bathroom. The round mirror in front of him evicted a greater sense of displacement; it was Bucky's face. But it was worn, tired, and drained. The dark hair hung around it like limp fingers and wrinkles in his white t-shirt evolved from lack of sleep. Was this who Steve knew?

He was a machine of man, fading back into the frailty of human condition.

He didn't know either of those men from the photo. Bucky was…good. He was loyal, determined and proud. The Soldier didn't feel any of that now. His memory hadn't been erased in a good few months, and that left him to contemplate the damage he had done from the last mission. Did he actually kill anyone? He knew if he had he wouldn't have cared in the moment. He knows he had hurt Steve.

_I knew him. _Those words seemed fatefully true, no matter which way he spun it in his head. Steve was important to him. But he couldn't understand much other than that. Since then it's only been a constant clash of the want of somebody, anybody, to tell him who he was and the fear that he couldn't trust it to be true. He didn't know himself. So who did? Still, he wasn't ready to see Steve again.

Right then, the Soldier's memory brought him back inside the helicarrier, facing off with him. The eyes were so pleading, so reluctant to fight. He had even come back to pull debris off of him. _All I know is Hydra, I am here to destroy you, you are my mission. _The glitch of emotion Steve's pleading had laid in him only made him angry. He had passed the breaking point a long time ago, but this was a whole other kind. Any traces of who he thought he was not permissible; the Winter soldier was stuck on performance. The confusion the Captain presented with his presence was overwhelming, and it had led him to attack without thought, without strategy. He threw punch after punch just to get the voices to stop.

With these thoughts, the Soldier threw the photo he was still holding aside. At this point he couldn't even remember the connection of most of his thoughts. There was not enough energy to try to make these it coherent.

Maybe the past would always haunt him.

Angrily, he smashed the wall next to the mirror with his left fist, leaving a baseball-sized hole in the wall. Still, it was smaller than the one in his heart.


	4. Chapter 3: Bitter End

**Chapter 3: Bitter End**

The air was fresh and the snow was white but he could not let go of what was unseen: memory. Out on the streets of Chicago once again, the Soldier wandered alone, searching for new sights to clear his mind. Ordinary civilians paid no attention to the man in the navy baseball cap, eyes glued to the pavement.

Every now and again he would look up, but as he crossed a bridge now he was suddenly surrounded by multiple American flags. For whatever reason, they unsettled him _immensely, _creating a form of longing he could not place. There was so much he wanted to understand, but his mind was filled with a thick haze that pressed into the corners of a deep migraine. Giving into the numbness, the Soldier did what he did best this past month: forgetting thoughts, walking alone.

Nearing a park, the Soldier saw children playing on snow-covered rocks and adults huddling together for warmth. The Soldier's frosted breath hung out in open air in front of him. There was noise, but it was dull. There were lights, but they were haloed. There was snow, but it felt like he was walking over blank pieces of printer paper, hovering between the lines of unknown and forgotten. There once were words, but they had been erased. He wanted so badly to remember.

The Soldier watched as the people around him soundlessly enjoyed the clean air and white noise of winter. Looking behind him, the Soldier saw a young girl with curly red hair. She was making her way to her friends on the opposite end of the park, carrying a cup. She was giggling and bouncing senselessly on her way – and knocked right into the Winter Soldier.

In her recklessness, the redhead slammed right into the Soldier's left shoulder. Caught off guard, he stumbled and lost his balance, and she dropped her cup. The Soldier fell over on the soft snow, wondering, how he hadn't seen that coming. The girl apologized and jumped up, but the Soldier didn't hear her. He was cemented to the ground by the sharp electric ache under his metal shoulder. The raw pain held him on the ground; the pain made him dizzy. Through the disorientation and blinding snow, all the Soldier could see was red, splattered all over the snow next to him.

Sudden flashes of memory came to him – white snow, white pain, red blood, red ache. He was back in the recesses of the Russian land where he had first fallen. Someone had come to find him to take him away…he didn't want to go there. Shut it out. But the pain was _there_. And he remembered it; the moment that changed everything. He remembered falling, crashing, landing on the arm that now required no feeling. Someone dragging him. Cutting into him.

He remembered falling, sinking into the abyss of white land of nothing, then everything, everything was made of pain. The thing was, the pain never stopped. That was the moment he was taken off to Hydra, made into a weapon, the power of more than his left arm taken from him. In the blood spread across the white blanket of snow that day was left pieces of him that he wasn't sure now if he could get back.

Reality snuck back in as his eyes opened to the illusion of a shattered left arm sticking out from under his coat. Then he was back in the park, and people were flocking to him, trying to help him up, making sure he was okay. The first man to touch him was unaware that the Winter Soldier did not like to be touched – but soon found out. The man went flying across the park as the Soldier's metal arm slammed into him. The other people gasped and quickly moved back from him, yet most were still curious.

With his rage, he fended off anyone else who thought they were helping. Suddenly this place was unsafe.

One face in particular never moved from him. A curious woman began to move closer to the crown from far away. Then it seemed as if something registered on her face, and she began to move in closer.

While her mind registered resolution, his registered fear. He didn't know this woman; she seemed somehow familiar, but he didn't have time to figure out why. The Soldier quickly lifted himself up from the ground and bolted from the park. He was running, sprinting fast to get away from her sensing stare.

And she was following.

He ran fast, as fast as possible, but she was fast, too. This was not the kind of running he had done on mission: there was never a real need to run. Not for his life. But this was actual fear, he ran as if his life was shortening. Fear built up in his lungs, thickening his breath and choking him. The woman clearly knew him or wanted something from him, and he was not okay with the possibility of this being Hydra.

He stopped around a corner. Heart beating hard and adrenaline coursing fast, the Soldier peeked around the building to see if he had lost her. Negative. About five buildings down the street, she came sprinting around the corner, hair blowing madly from the speed. His breath caught in his chest and he pushed himself off the wall, running again.

Dread accompanied adrenaline as he fought the fear of what might happen if he got caught. _Never again._ Running, running from the woman. Running from what he once was. Running from the confrontation. He couldn't, he just couldn't. The blood in his ears then overtook the sound of his own footsteps, which ceased. The Soldier, overwhelmed by the increased activity of his mind and racing heart, fell onto the gray concrete beneath the buildings he had grown accustomed to wandering. He panted shallow breaths as his eyes faded to black, a vision of sleek black leather and fiery red hair the last thing he saw standing over him.


	5. Chapter 4: The Thread

**Chapter 4: The Thread**

When Sam Wilson strolled into his living room on a sunny, chipper Sunday, the last thing he expected was for someone to be there. Sometimes Steve would come by without notice if something was urgent, but it was more likely that he would just join him and lap him in his morning jog. He had just come back from that, and this wasn't Steve. However, he did know who it _was_.

Before the questions in Sam's mind reached their completion, Natasha Romanov came into his view from the side of the room. She looked at him with her famously intent gaze and whispered, "Trust me." Sam glanced behind her at the dark figure sitting rigid on the end on his couch, staring intently at the blank TV screen. The Winter Soldier was in Sam's house. Well, his body was there, but no one really knew where his mind was.

Sam raised his eyebrows and shrugged. As he turned back into the kitchen, Natasha followed him. "I guess that makes searching for him easier. How long has he been here?"

"I found him wandering around Chicago yesterday. He freaked out on someone at the bridge and ran but I tracked him down." Sam's response was a somewhat puzzled yet approving nod. "Steve will be here soon."

"All right, well you're handling that, Romanov. And him." Sam gestured to the Soldier on his couch, who hadn't seemed to move an inch. "I don't care if he stays here, just keep an eye on Bucky, the Winter Soldier, whoever he is. For Steve." Then Sam took a quick swig out of the milk jug he was holding and turned into the kitchen.

Natasha nodded and walked back over to the living room to where Bucky was sitting. In a possibly futile attempt to make him more comfortable, she started talking to him.

"I know you're confused. You probably don't know who I am. But Steve is on his way here…" At his mention, she noticed Bucky stiffen a bit and take in a deep breath. But nothing more. She swallowed and tried again. "Just…just know that no one here wants to hurt you." Just then Natasha heard the front door open and fast, heavy footsteps in the kitchen.

"Nat?" Bucky's head snapped up at the sound of Steve's voice ricocheting off the back wall. "You sounded urgent…" Steve entered the doorway of the living room, but Natasha met him there before he could finish his sentence. The real reason he was cut off was the sight of the man in the dark coat on Sam's couch. _Bucky was here._

Stumbling through sentences and surprise, Steve directed his words to Natasha and his thoughts to Bucky. "Wh – Where? … I thought you told me not to pull on the thread."

Nat crossed her arms and shrugged as she looked down. "I knew you were going to anyway. Haven't been too successful this far; I thought I'd help you at least do it right." Confusion and worry still filled Steve's face, but he moved past Natasha into the living room to confront it.

Bucky wasn't moving from the far end of the couch. Since Steve walked in his breathing had become nervous and shallow, and he was fidgety. He kept his eyes down, looking anywhere but at him. Even so, Steve came to sit down next to him on the couch.

"Hey, Buck." It seemed like ages that Bucky sat there still, eyes straight ahead of him. But finally he turned toward Steve. And they both knew he remembered. Bucky didn't have to say a word, because all of his hurt, fear, and confusion was written across his expression like the perfect painting of a wounded soldier. He gave the ever-so-slight nod. _Yeah, it's me._

Steve didn't know what else to say. He didn't know how much Bucky actually did remember, and he didn't want to tip the glass if his memory was actually that fragile. He couldn't even imagine what Bucky had been through. "I know you're hurting…and you may not fully remember me - " Steve began. His heart ached for Bucky, for his lost friend. "But I'm here. And I want you to know you can stay here, if you like. I'm glad you are here."

Then Bucky looked at Steve; it was the first time he actually made eye contact. Slowly breathing out, he gave Steve a slow, determined nod. Neither of them knew what else to say – Steve didn't want to push Bucky, but Bucky didn't really want to talk to Steve. It was hazy memory. So Steve left him, there on Sam's couch – but It was ever-so-reluctantly.

The Soldier didn't know how long he was there until he feel asleep. The hours dripped by and he was too drained from insomnia to try to do anything.

Steve was here. If he wasn't going to face his own problems, they would come to him, he supposed. _I don't know what they want from me_, he thought. Just a Soldier, and a fairly worthless one now. No direction, no mission. The memories were too hard. So what was he even doing here? Anywhere? There were still too many questions and the Soldier was getting tired of trying to think out his solutions. Eventually exhaustion won over and the Soldier melted into a few hours of stagnant silence, finally slipping into a temporary state of simply being.


	6. Chapter 5: Soldier Shoulder

**Chapter 5: Soldier Shoulder**

"Hello? Yes this is him." Steve answered the phone that Sam handed him with a dose of formality. Bucky could hear him from the hallway, and when he came around the corner he saw Steve talking on the phone with a worried expression.

"Yes…yes, of course. Thank you." Steve hung up the phone and set it on the kitchen counter. His expression of worry didn't change when he saw Bucky. "Hey…how are you this morning?"

Bucky shrugged, looking right at Steve. He hadn't been talking much. He tried to make it clear that he appreciated the place to stay, but still wasn't up to trying to sort out his thoughts out loud. He and Steve had tried a real conversation once, just to understand where they were. Bucky did his best to communicate that he did remember Steve – knew who he was, at least – but was dealing with so much inside his mind that he just couldn't bring all that pain into the open. Not now. Steve responded with grace, assuring Bucky he would give him the space he needed.

Now Steve looked at Bucky like the foundation of the earth might shatter and they could fall right through. There was so much worry in that expression; Bucky wasn't oblivious to it. He knew Steve cared – yet that almost made it harder. How could he burden him?

"Everything alright?" Bucky asked casually. He had to kill this silence somehow.

Steve furrowed his brow and looked down. "Yeah. Yeah, it was nothin'." From outside the back door, Sam called for Steve to join him outside for the grocery run the had planned earlier. With Bucky staying at Sam's now and therefore Steve always being over there for him, they needed a bit more than they had.

Steve looked back toward Sam's voice, then back at Bucky. "Don't worry." He told Bucky. Because he knew how he got. "We're gonna head out now. You can come…I mean, if you'd like. It might be good for you. You…we'll, it's up to you."

Bucky shrugged again and shook his head. "Nah. I'm good here. Been out too much, really."

"Alright, just…be safe. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Bucky looked up at Steve with realization and confusion dancing through his eyes. That sounded familiar. But how was he supposed to remember what Steve would or wouldn't do? Bucky saw as Steve looked down with an expression that mourned a gesture fallen flat. Pressing past that lingering phrase, Bucky tossed Steve a forced half-smile before turning back to the hallway where he came. Steve looked back at Bucky one last time and then left to join Sam.

As Bucky sat on the bed in Sam's guest room, he tried to control the growing worry that was swelling up inside his chest. Why did Steve look that way? Bucky sure as hell still didn't have all the details, but he knew that he cared about Steve. If something was threatening him, Bucky should know about it; he wasn't about to let anything slip past him anymore. Sure, Steve Rogers _was_ Captain America, but Bucky knew what Hydra was capable of, and if they were looking for Bucky, he'd need to be ready. The tiniest threat to Steve would set him off.

Even the thought of Hydra filled Bucky with rage. He did not want _those_ memories, but when they came it reminded Bucky of why he had walked away, and why he was the way he was. Hydra was the reason to blame for everything. The reason Bucky hadn't just died when he fell from the train in 1944. The reason he had been responsible for hundreds of crimes over the past 70 years. The reason that Bucky had no one, absolutely no one there for him. Hydra was the enemy.

Bucky knew it was dangerous for him to even be there at Sam's, where Steve came to visit all the time. But Bucky didn't want to go, he knew that. So the next best thing was to make sure he was prepared for anything that might come to take them on.

_I need to be useful,_ he thought. Now where would there be a gun? Surely Sam had a few somewhere. Or did he simply fly away from everything? Doubtful. Surely the military taught him to use more than the wings. Even so, Bucky couldn't find any guns at Sam's after 40 minutes of searching. They must be safe and secure somewhere where only Sam could get them. Frustrated, he knew there had to be something else. What else could he use to protect them?

Of course – knives. Bucky sprinted back to Sam's kitchen and began flinging open drawers and cabinets, taking out every knife he could find. There was even a pocketknife in the miscellaneous drawer.

Bucky flicked open the pocketknife and examined the blade, silver metal glinting in the dim light of the kitchen. As the knife became an addition to the bionic arm that held it, he touched the blade with his right fingers. Sharp.

No one would touch them.

One by one, Bucky lined up the knives he had collected from the entire house on the dining room table. It filled him with ease, and maybe even glee, to see the array of weapons at his disposal. He was not defenseless; he would not be caught off guard. He would not let another thing be taken from him.


	7. Chapter 6: Mission Happiness

**Please please please review! What did you think?**

**Chapter 6: Mission Happiness**

When Steve and Sam came back with armfuls of groceries, the house was silent. Steve's instinct was to be immensely anxious. When Steve looked over at Sam, his face betrayed his worry, yet Sam reassured him. "I'm sure he's just…takin' a nap, or somethin'."

With all Bucky's been through, Steve knew he hadn't been sleeping well. Why would now be any different? With hesitation, he began walking further into the house. He heard nothing. Approaching the kitchen, he saw a glimmer of light coming from the dining room table. As he stepped closer, the full view of the table top came into his eyesight. Lined up from one end to the other, every knife from Sam's household stood at attention, blades north, ready for come what may. They were even arranged by size, with the larger ones closer to the inside of the house.

Steve started when he felt the movement from the hallway. He turned to see Bucky entering the kitchen. "Buck?" He began, looking back at the knives. "You alright?"

Sam, feeling the tension thicken in the room, knew this was not his place. "I'll uh, be in my room if you guys need anything." With that, he left Steve and Bucky to themselves.

Bucky moved into the light of the kitchen. His face looked worn and exhausted; deep circles that Steve hadn't noticed before were forming under his eyes from lack of sleep. "What's going on?" Steve tried again.

"I thought we might, y'know, need protection." Bucky slid his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet, shrugging as if it were nothing. "I may not remember everything, Steve, but I know that you're important to me." Steve felt himself relax yet collapse from the idea that he knew what was coming. "I know it's dangerous for me to even be staying here, near you. They might come looking for me – " Steve began to shake his head but Bucky continued. "And if they do, I want to be ready. I have a feeling you don't want me just leaving."

Steve offered Bucky a slight half-grin. "Never." He walked around the table to come closer to Bucky, let him know he was there for him. "I don't want you to feel like this is your fault. You know I can fend for myself now, don't you? And you're _not_ a burden." Steve placed his hand on Bucky's shoulder, to which he responded by looking up towards the ceiling as if his tears would spill over. The wall was breaking; Steve's touch dissolved it, the way that salt dissolved ice, revealing layers of hurt and anger that spilled across Bucky's face.

Once Steve got the chance, he made eye contact with Bucky. "What's this about, huh? What got you so worried like this?"

Bucky drew in a shaky breath. "This morning, I heard you on the phone. You sounded so worried and I …you wouldn't tell me…So I just wanted to be prepared."

Steve let out a breath and relax, dropping his hand from Bucky's shoulder. "Aw, Buck. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have worried you…It was the museum. They called to report some suspicious activity on their security cameras a few months ago. I told them it was me." Bucky looked at Steve, surprised. "I guess you're not the only one who thinks a baseball hat is a good enough cover." Steve smirked.

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. He knew they had really called about him. Maybe saw him steal the photo. But maybe Steve really had been there, too. Either way, Bucky knew Steve was just covering for him. He drew in a deep breath and pressed his lips together, trying to find the words to say. "Steve…I don't know what to do with myself." Steve looked up at him, eyes listening. "I've always had something to focus on, something to put my mind to. A mission." Even as he said it, Bucky couldn't look Steve in the face, but he felt his eyes on him. "Nothing…makes sense. It comes and it goes… and I hate thinking."

Steve could see that Bucky was struggling with words, struggling with what he felt, even. He hadn't seen that look, much less that face, in such a long time. And he had missed it. Right now he hated seeing Bucky sad, hated seeing him so broken. This was his childhood friend, the one that followed him to the jaws of death and wouldn't leave the site of an explosion without him. That Bucky was strong, and Steve had a feeling that Bucky was still in there somewhere. Somewhere beneath all the pain that was too obviously written across his manner.

"Well you know what?" Steve waited until he could get Bucky's eye contact. "Those times are over. We've got each other, 'til the end of the line." Steve didn't care how much Bucky truly understood the significance of his words; they were true. He placed his hand on Bucky's shoulder once again. "Your mission now is to be happy."

Bucky looked up at Steve, smiled, and said, "Mission Happiness." Steve smiled back.

**End.**


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